There are a number of aspects about pre-Internet pop culture that seemed like bugs at the time, but with the benefit of rose-colored hindsight have come to be seen as features. Notably there's a strange nostalgia for the concept of a pop music monoculture, where massive, demographically diverse audiences could be united in the fandom of a select handful of global superstars — your Michael Jacksons, Beatles, Princes, and Led Zeppelins — in a way that seems more and more impossible to replicate as the pop landscape becomes increasingly fragmented.

Like most cases of nostalgia this one's had some of its factual basis replaced by mythology. Not everyone thought that the entirety of pop culture uniting behind a handful of artists was a good thing, and the stifling atmosphere of conformity that Jackson and Zeppelin and others inspired led directly to counterrevolutions like punk and alternative rock.

But the universal pop star has its appeal, at least in theory (and in memory). Following a megastar can let you feel like part of something much larger than yourself, and global stardom can elevate someone like Michael Jackson or John Lennon to an otherworldly, even godlike sort of stature. Add to that the rites of Old Media fandom — lining up at the record store to grab a copy of the new album when it goes on sale at midnight, gathering in front of the TV with fellow fans for the premiere of a new video — and pop music fandom could feel like a legitimately religious experience.

The pop megastar hasn't gone extinct yet, but it's definitely endangered. Listeners have an infinitude of music to choose from now, and artists can afford to avoid the sort of sacrifices it takes to reach universal fame and instead narrowcast to a niche audience that can support them while barely interacting with any of the countless other niches out there. There are only a handful of truly monolithic artists left who can unite large audiences from across disparate demographics with disparate musical tastes: Jay-Z, Beyoncé, Kanye, and, surprisingly, Daft Punk.

The French robot duo's seemingly universal appeal goes against most of the things that history's taught us about American pop audiences' proclivities. Their music's based on the repetitive structures of house music, which mainstream listeners have historically been less than keen on, rather than verse-chorus-verse pop. (Even now most of the EDM that's crossed over to the Hot 100 is basically pop music with heavy four-on-the-floor drum machines, and it was even rarer on the pop charts when the group first broke out in the mid '90s.) The vocal elements in their songs are so highly manipulated and nearly amelodic that their music almost qualifies as instrumental. They don't show their faces. They're French.

And yet it seems that everyone loves them. Alt-rockers flocked to the group at a time when the guitar still reigned supreme. They're probably the biggest non-rap influence on the way modern hip-hop sounds. They're legitimate global pop stars, with three gold albums in the U.S. and enough gold and platinum awards from other countries to cover a decent-sized wall. Their headlining sets at America's biggest music festivals — performed from atop an enormous, LED-encrusted pyramid — are some of the most talked-about live shows of the past decade.

There are a number of possible reasons why Daft Punk appeals so strongly to so many people. The robot helmets have a sci-fi/comic-book sort of appeal that's obviously a contributing factor, especially when it comes to the duo's immense popularity with geeks of all sorts. (Daft Punk cosplayers have become a common sight at comic conventions.) Their music's catchy, and infinitely listenable.

But above all of these things, their music's more unabashedly joyful than anything else on the pop charts. Not sexy, or druggily hedonistic — not that these are bad qualities for a song to have — but purely, immaculately euphoric. It seems to have the same direct line to our brains' most basic, primitive pleasure centers that cat videos have. For as complex as their compositions are, they're never complicated. They never demand decoding, and they never deliver anything but the group's particular brand of bliss.

It's this facet of Daft Punk's identity that allows them to get away with discarding almost every other aspect of their established formula on their new album, Random Access Memories, which is streaming free on iTunes now and officially comes out next week. Unlike their past efforts, this is a thoroughly analog affair, with instruments (including drums) played by hand, rather than sequenced and recorded to tape, for a warm-blooded sound that might seem at odds with their robotic image. They've also collaborated with a broad range of guest musicians, from dance-music icons like Giorgio Moroder and Chic's Nile Rodgers to modern pop stars like Pharrell Williams and Julian Casablancas, none of whom perform from behind helmets.

And for the first time, they're making actual pop songs in the traditional mold, in which vocal melodies, rather than grooves, do the heavy lifting. But although they've changed the way they worked, and even introduced songs that are delicate and nuanced enough to encourage contemplation, the album still has the texture of a Daft Punk record, and still delivers the most important part of a Daft Punk record, which is the feeling that the future is a bright, beautiful place, and we're living in it right now.